15 kinds of love
by TooManyChoices
Summary: One-shot relationship building. Fluffy non-smut. I don't own any part of BBC Sherlock but I'm eternally grateful to those that do.


"Facts John, I need facts!" Sherlock's voice carried through the flat, up the stairs and through John's closed bedroom door. Startled out of sleep, John glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Just past 3am. In all likelihood, Sherlock hadn't even registered when John had headed up the stairs a little after midnight, and he'd probably been conversing with him in his absence ever since.

Pulling on his slippers against the cold floorboards, John padded down to see what the mad genius downstairs was pursuing at this time of the morning.

With an exhausted huff, John threw himself down in the armchair and watched through bleary eyes as Sherlock, still dressed from the day before, stalked the room. He'd shed his suit jacket and it lay carelessly draped on the couch. At some point, he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves and John watched the hypnotic, almost serpentine movements of his long pale forearms in the dim light of the lounge as they added punctuation and inflection to his words.

"Are you listening John?" The pacing paused as he turned toward the chair.

"What? Yes, what were you saying? Sorry Sherlock, Do you know it's after 3am?" All John wanted to do was go back to bed and concentration was an elusive currency at this time of night.

The full lips tightened marginally and a small crease appeared between sable brows as Sherlock considered the response, "Really? I hadn't noticed. Why haven't you gone to bed?"

_Honestly, the man is infuriating_. "As a matter of fact I had gone to bed, but someone shouting in the lounge room woke me up."

John saw the frown deepened. Sherlock could be reckless with people's feelings, but John knew_ no matter what others may think_, Sherlock wasn't ignorant of others' needs. Over the two years John had been sharing the Baker Street flat, he'd been teaching his recalcitrant student, through a process of trial and error, the importance of sharing, of privacy, and of a certain level of household hygiene _particularly with regards to the proper segregation of foodstuffs and experiments in the fridge_. The grey/green eyes softened and Sherlock approached the drowsy man curled in the chair.

"I'm sorry John, I should have realised. Go back to bed, I won't trouble you further."

"No, go on. I really am interested." It was true, whether morning, mid-day, evening or now, in the small hours of the morning. Whether he was working at the clinic or asleep upstairs, John would drop everything to stand at this man's side. Listening to that exceptional brain work its magic sent a thrill through him every time, and the thought of missing even a moment was vaguely nauseating. However, where his mind was willing, the body was sometimes weak, and he couldn't stop the yawn that escaped even as he covered his mouth with a curled fist.

"At least move to the couch, that way you can listen, but still rest. Agreed?"

John nodded wearily and shifted to the couch, tossing a cushion under his head and dragging a quilt down to cover his feet. His pyjamas together with the fire burning cheerily in the grate would keep the rest of him warm.

"Would it bother you if I played as I think?" Sherlock asked quietly, his face all sharp angles and shadows from the firelight.

"Mmm, fine." John mumbled. _More than fine_. Sherlock's violin often formed a third voice in the flat, in harmonious communion with the genius, often communicating more about what was going on in the detective's brain than the words from his mouth. John often thought that the strings somehow gave voice to the emotions that Sherlock couldn't find the words to convey. "I love it when you play" he added under his breath.

Pitching his voice lower, the velvet baritone ebbed and flowed through the room mingling with strains of Mendelssohn's Lieder, transmitting Sherlock's stream of consciousness to the quiet room. John hazily realised that very little of what Sherlock was saying required a response and he was simply thinking out loud to the room, putting thoughts in order as he often did, but the sound of his voice together with the keening of the strings was soothing and John's eyes drifted closed as he was lulled to sleep.

Whether it was five minutes or an hour John couldn't tell. It was certainly still dark and the fire still lit the room so he hadn't slept through the remainder of the night. Sherlock was still playing, a gentle, cascading melody which John wasn't familiar with. Perhaps composing something original? Sherlock was still talking, but the topic had changed from the case to more philosophical topics, from the snatches of words between melodic phrases, John gathered that his love of Sherlock's violin playing was being deduced.

"Love is such an inexact word" Sherlock was musing, "It has three basic meanings when applied to an object, but then fifteen when related to another person. Obviously John isn't sexually attracted to my violin, so that leaves us with passionate affection or warm personal attachment. And is there any measurable difference between the two in any case? Does the love depend on what is being played, or when, or the physical distance away from the instrument? Is it the music itself he loves or the instrument or…" there was a stutter in the progress of the thoughts as an unexpected path opened before him, "or me?"

John remained still and quiet on the sofa but any thought of sleep swiftly departed. The night-time musings had strayed into awkward territory, stumbling into feelings that lurked just below the surface of their interactions on a daily basis. John had been in some intense relationships in the past with both men and women both platonic and not. The combined fields of medicine and war had a tendency to result in either an emotionless detachment to those around you, or open-hearted, passionate acceptance of those you lived and worked with. John heartily embraced the latter and took occasional heartbreak as a fair price to pay for the blinding joy that caring with his whole heart gave him.

John had known for some time that he'd fallen for his flatmate; with hindsight, it was inevitable once Sherlock had dazzled him with his initial deductions. However he was equally aware that the way he treated relationships, emotions, love was very different from Sherlock who remained aloof and emotionally distant from virtually everyone around him. There had been tantalising glimpses that Sherlock was able to care in the way he treated Mrs Hudson. There was a casual affection that gave John cause to hope that although sentiment may be dormant in the man, it was certainly part of his deeper personality. There were supportive hugs, unguarded smiles and a fondness that flowed into every interaction with their downstairs landlord _not our housekeeper_ that showed Sherlock was certainly capable of forming lasting attachments, even if he had precious few at the moment.

Sherlock had put aside the violin to focus more fully on the new problem at hand. Leaving John asleep on the sofa, Sherlock quietly settled into his armchair in front of the fire and John wondered if the end of the external conversation with the violin would also spell the end of his verbal reasoning process. He needn't have worried as the quiet voice from across the room continued its wandering path.

"Let us begin with the hypothesis that it is in fact me that John loves, rather than the violin itself. It's not an unreasonable assumption given his need for connection to those around him and the tactile nature of his interactions."

_Tactile? Oh, he means I keep touching people._

"Let us explore how many of the fifteen kinds of love may be candidates for John's relationship with me."

John was fascinated. He hadn't even known there were fifteen kinds of love, much less that you could apply more than one at a time. On second thought, he supposed there were the obvious ones, maternal, lust, unrequited. _Trust Sherlock to overcomplicate the situation._

"I think I can safely exclude some of the obvious. Patriotism, puppy, self-love and spiritual clearly don't apply here. Maternal and paternal are a reach, and soul-mate is a concept I don't prescribe to. Brotherly love is a virtual certainty, as I doubt there isn't a person on the planet that wouldn't be included from John's view. There is potential for a degree of infatuation, but I believe we've moved beyond that."

John smiled in the darkened corner conceding that infatuation was probably a fair term for those first few heady weeks.

"Tough love," there was a chuckle from the chair by the fire, deep and self-deprecating; "I think John would agree he's applied a fair bit of that in the past months with good cause. I did warn him before he moved in."

John wondered if this was how Sherlock used to converse before he'd arrived, one-sided conversations with the skull on the mantle. The tones sounded different, more unguarded than when John was in the room and he was struck with an odd twinge of jealousy for the inanimate skull and the strangely intimate relationship they seemed to have.

"Conditional love?" Sherlock paused, "Is John's love dependent on specific conditions, or my actions? Would he discard our relationship if I failed to behave in an expected way?" Another longer pause but ending with more determination. "No. I don't believe he would. So let's consider the alternative, Unconditional love."

Without Sherlock realising it, John suspected that they had reached the term that John would probably best associate with most of his relationships. John was faithful, loyal and unwavering. When he committed to a relationship regardless of whether there was sex involved, his commitment was unquestioning and nonjudgemental. He took people in their entirety, all their scars, flaws and chequered history. The good with the bad, and remained steadfast as the relationship progressed until it thrived or failed utterly.

Surprisingly, Sherlock skimmed over the categorisation before moving on. "Yes, I can classify John's love as unconditional on evidence. Companionate love, or warmth toward a friend you love to spend time with is also clearly applicable."

John had been trying to keep count and he was reasonably sure there could only be a few left. Sherlock's analysis had been flawless and John was pleased he'd been present to experience it, even if he hadn't been included.

"John, I'd appreciate your help to ensure I reach the right conclusion for the final two. Do you mind?"

_Oh_. John cleared his throat, "You know I'm awake?"

"Of course, I've known since I put the violin down."

"But I thought…the skull."

"John, I haven't talked to the skull since you moved in. I find your unique view to be far superior to my previous audience. Additionally, it seemed inappropriate to be discussing our relationship without you being aware of the conversation."

"Thank you, I think. Although the entire subject is a bit...odd."

"Why? Has anything I've surmised so far been inaccurate?"

"Well no, but still. It's a bit...personal."

"Do you want to stop? Before I finish my analysis?" Sherlock's tone clearly indicated that while he'd cease the investigation if John asked, it wouldn't be his preference. It wasn't like Sherlock to leave a job half done.

"No, go ahead. I want to see how this story ends. I love a good bedtime story."

"Do you mean 'love a bedtime story' as in..."

"Sherlock...just leave it alone."

"Right. Fine, sorry. Facts. I can't help myself." Though the easy smile, Sherlock had the grace to look just a little chastised.

John grinned back, and drew a deep breath, "OK...hit me with it, how many do we have left?"

"Two. Romantic love and Eros."

"I'm not familiar with the second, Greek right?"

"Very good John. Eros is..." Sherlock dropped his tone adding a sultry lilt, "not applicable without getting naked and moving this to the bedroom."

"Sherlock! Can we not...really...no...not gay...still. I mean we don't...haven't.." John waved his hands between the two of them. Casual touching was one thing, and he wasn't going to deny that his flatmate had a certain broody 'something' going for him in that coat but...no.

"OK, so no Eros. Glad we've cleared that up. Good to know."

"I don't think romantic love needs much consideration, surely?"

"Don't be so quick to discard that one. I'm not talking candlelight and roses, but from a purely psychological view, romantic love is more about respect, caring and passion than...how would you put it? Getting a leg over."

"But still..."

"We respect each other?"

"Enormously."

"And we take care of each other? You're particularly good at that and I seem to need it rather too frequently."

"Of course, I don't give it a second thought."

"And the nature of our work and our dedication to it, I'd consider it...passionate."

"Yes...I suppose." John hesitantly added, "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with where this is going Sherlock."

"But John, don't you see. You haven't actually GONE anywhere. You're exactly where you were when you went to bed last night. The name isn't the THING John, anymore than calling you a soldier or a Doctor is what you are. You're both of those things and yet more. You're insightful, and wise, and dangerous, and you make tea and toast, and you like jam and Chinese food. And you are still a conductor of light, and you are essential to me John."

"Right then. Romantic love it is then. Can we not tell anyone...please?"

"Of course. Love's a ridiculous term anyway. You should get some sleep, you have clinic in the morning."

"Might just stay here if you don't mind."

"So..." Sherlock settled into the armchair by the fire, his voice carrying over the back of his armchair, "No Eros then?"

The cushion that hit Sherlock in the back of the head was accompanied by easy laughter from them both.


End file.
